This is the wage of living, furrowed brow
And tempered evenings, alighting only

When the fog lifts, the camomile is sincere
But awash with circled inks and numbered vials.

Vile emblem the crow volant,
Forsaking history by wishing it were sinister
Or to chief the chalk the tree the liar feeds
Counting off from the cast die strum
Strum the clutter, strum the wild, wild drum.

She beats her head against it all,
And cries, "Is this Transcendence, or simple
Enlightenment?"